


The Disco - A Rusty Lake Derivative

by dragoninthesunlesssky



Category: Rusty Lake - The White Door, Rusty Lake | Cube Escape (Video Games), The White Door
Genre: 70s, Disco, Original Character(s), Other, POV Original Character, Rusty Lake - Freeform, Surreal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22224517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragoninthesunlesssky/pseuds/dragoninthesunlesssky
Summary: Nobody quite knows the inner workings of the Rusty Lake. Some have harnessed it, but that same some can't fully comprehend it. The Rusty Lake chooses who and what gets to catch a glimpse of it. Some are horrified. Some are desensitized. But there's always one that is morbidly curious. It was in the Vanderbooms' blood. And they were granted their wish. But the Lake is not all benevolent. What about those denied by the Lake? Those who try, in spite of everything, to, one day, see. How will the Lake retaliate? Is it possible to succeed?Welcome to the emotional truck-stop of the Lake.Welcome to The Disco.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Four On The Floor [Part I]

There’re words on everybody’s lips. 

Dangling from the tip of their pointed tongues. 

They slide down like sludge and taint the pool of otherwise harmless meanings, leaving a foul stench in the hosts’ mouths. It reeks on their breath like vodka or cigarettes, but, like their tired coworkers on dreary weekday mornings, nobody’s man enough to say a word. 

This world is plagued with monsters.

They lay on the streets in broad daylight. Sit in our chairs. Sing our songs. Eat our food. 

They leave a trail. Like that stench, but now more tangible. Charred footprints trail them, like shadows that’ve lingered too long. Their skin sizzles when it rains, like water on a scorching skillet. It creates a misty aura that surrounds them as they limp towards an unknown destination. The food they eat decomposes into strands of unchewable sinew that hold boney broken forms together. And all that’s left is mulch for fattened flies to devour.

But for the most part,  _ and most importantly _ (at least to any meaningful authority), they don’t hurt people. At least, that’s what we think. What we’re comfortable with thinking. 

“They’re born from us, how could they hurt us?”

And as a result,  **_we don’t bother_ ** . 

**_Nobody bothers._ **

Their existence is unequivocally confirmed in the minds of all but purely hypothetical in the world of documentation. 

Leaving the pain they inflict just as hypothetical. Leaving the people born out of this pain just as hypothetical. Leaving their possibility to ever get justice just as  _ purely fucking hypothetical _ . 

Few have actually seen these monsters distilled. But their characteristics are unmistakable. Eyes sunken like somebody had used an ice-cream scooper to dig out holes in their malleable blackened skulls. Pools of this milky-like substance reside in those holes, never pouring out when it should. Their laughs terrify. Chasms of space, void of light, that suddenly pull apart to reveal a sickening set of thin, tall, pearly teeth. The sound they make is like a record, warped from an intense heat - patches of grating sound against sheer silence. 

And they all were drawn, like moths to a flame, to their one haven. 

“ID?”

Mirek shrugged. 

“Didn’t bring it. Didn’t think I’d need it.” She attempted to produce a sweet smile, cocking her head awkwardly. Her hair was still badly tangled from sleeping on the bus over, and her left arm was engraved with pinkish-red marks from resting on it against the cold, boxy, windows. Despite that, she did her best to appear,  _ somewhat _ , presentable. 

The man she faced was somewhat egg-looking. Pale skin that wouldn’t warrant calling him a ghost but wouldn’t warrant calling him human either. He was bald, like the other bouncer that had disappeared into the club, but unlike him and his luscious, fiery moustache, this one had a scruffy beard that was greying in patches. Despite the less exciting mouth hair-do, he seemed kinder. More humorous. Perhaps even, if God allowed, somewhat lenient. 

He stood on top of a short set of steps that were lined with two flimsy metal railings, guarding the Garden of Escapist Eden that was the disco. 

Mirek tip toed slightly, doing her best to peer past the man’s statue-like physique. 

From the slit in the pair of tangerine doors, made from fake, glossy, wood, emanated this pinkish-purplish light. Strobes of lime green shot out like lasers, aiming at invisible adversaries that roamed the street, occasionally catching the unsuspecting passer-by off guard. 

Within that protected haven, she could see bodies pressed against each other, bathed in a tiger-orange and grape-purple glow, moving in astonishing coordination, which would appear choreographed if not for the stragglers who stood on the outskirts of the dance floor, thrusting their lanky forms erratically, and swiveling their hips in electrifying and jagged motions. Their mouths lip-synced to the music pumping out of those chunky, boxy, giants that surrounded them, and their hands twirled like their own ballerinas. 

It was a sort of mania almost. 

An uncontrollable contraction of muscles triggered by that rhythmic, pulsating, beat. 

Mirek caught that same fever, feeling her hips swaying even as she stood at the entrance, fingers gripping onto that silvery railing her body weight rested on. 

The man raised an eyebrow. 

“Can’t let you in then.” 

Mirek pouted. A pair of cherry lips that puckered and exploded. Like a goldfish.

“Aw c’mon babe. I got dressed up and everything.” 

“Really can’t  _ babe. _ You’re not worth getting fired.” He reiterated, looking up stoically at the pavement. 

_ “Are we?”  _

A brigade of women, dressed in a coordinated assault on the eyes - jackets with knee-length fringes, short dresses that shimmered like a river passing through a city at night, and tall vinyl boots - sauntered up, arm-in-arm. 

_ Arms-in-arms?  _

Mirek pondered. 

The bouncer simply lifted a corner of his lips, which she assumed was his best attempt at a smile, and nodded his head. 

They walked in, giggling and tossing their heads back, some waving back, before breaking formation and dispersing into the crowd. 

“And why are they?”

The man, almost surprised that Mirek was still there, raised an eyebrow. 

“They’re regulars. They’re on the guest list. They know the boss. They’re  _ of age _ .” He emphasised. “Go home. Disco’s not gonna die anytime soon.”

“Oh-kay. Who’s the boss.”

Her tone was drenched in teenish certainty and cockiness that the bouncer was all too familiar with. A tone that implied that if she persisted, she could verbally brute force her way in.

A tone that rung alarm bells in his head. 

“A man who has strict rules.” 

Mirek calibrated a response. 

“A man who wouldn’t mind giving a chance to an innocent girl who innocently left her ID at home?” 

He couldn’t tell if he was bemused or annoyed by her. Her resolve did much to endear her to him. It felt almost like a rite of passage. Having to bar a teen from waltzing into a club. He didn’t get that much out where he was. 

He leaned back, unfolding his arms slightly. 

“Takes more than an ID to get in.” 

“Please.” Mirek lifted herself up onto the railing and kicked her legs in the air. “Hardly think that a place like this can afford to be picky.” 

“Trust me, they can afford.” 

“You sound sure.” 

A pair of glaring headlights that lit up the road caught the man’s attention. He glanced up to the road and made a face that Mirek couldn’t pinpoint before continuing. 

“This place is the boss’ pet project. Beloved princess. Crown jewel. He’d first go bankrupt before watching the place shut down.” 

Mirek followed his eyes and caught sight of a light purple car. It had a body like a cassette tape, terribly thin, terribly rectangular. A sort of golden glow emerged from the interior of the car, illuminating the discs tied to the roof handles along with trails of plastic beads.

The leather backseat was protected with a zebra skin rug. On it, a collection of make-up paraphernalia lay scattered alongside a collection of sultry magazines, front pages plastered with women with voluptuous hair and thick lips, a crystal purse that sparkled like its own disco ball, and a box of records in yellowed sleeves and faded covers.

A hand reached out to grab the purse, dark skin and nude nails, a bulky ring on one of those slender fingers, and it disappeared behind tinted front windows. 

“Alex, dahling…” A soothing deep voice oozed from the car door, cracked open. A pair of glittery heels dug into the pavement.

“Park me?” She dangled a key ring on her index. Two keys hooked on a thick metal ring, a small plastic model of a sprite bottle attached to it. 

Alex grunted and glanced at Mirek who merely smirked and crossed her legs. 

“Oh. A kid.” The woman’s face was obscured by a pair of sunglasses. Two thick lenses held in place by equally thick light blue frames that looked milky- glossy, opaque, and smooth. 

“Not a kid.” Mirek offered a patronizing grin. 

“Heh. You remind me of me.” Her hair bounced with each step she climbed. “What’re you doing here? Disco city’s miles away.” 

“It’s too crowded there.” Mirek uncrossed her legs, picking at her shoes, peeling off the thin scabs of peeling paint. 

“She giving you trouble?” 

“None sir. Just teens being teens.” 

“Mm.” She spun her head towards Alex. “I’ll babysit, Lexi. Now help park my car before some asshole tows it.” 

Alex plucked the keys off the woman’s fingers, trudging towards the Cadillac. 

“You ain’t gonna budge are you? I’ve seen you gawking here for a while now.” 

“I will budge. Just depends what I’m budging for.” 

The woman pinched the frames of her glasses, fingers gingerly extended. She lowered them to another notch in her nose, examining the girl in front of her. She had loose curls like corkscrews that erupted from her scalp in a deep brown but evaporated into a light blonde at her eyebrows and ended at her shoulders. She had a certain look about her. A teenage defiance. An anger that bubbled and empowered and blinded. Unmistakable. Familiar. Her eyes were hazel, nose plastered with freckles. A pair of small lips that tightened with every passing second of silence. 

“Y’know disco could use some young blood like yourself. It’s too bad Alexei won’t let you in, pretty sure you’d’ve killed it with the folks in there.” 

“I still can.” Mirek hinted. “Shift change. New people. Might give them a go.” 

The woman chuckled. “Oh? You mean me?”   


“You have the power.” 

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Do I?”

“You’re the boss, aren’t you.”

“I am?” The woman feigned shock which Mirek took with much, thinly-veiled, offense. “Now even if I were, what makes you think I’d compromise my integrity for you, sugar?” 

She emphasised ‘integrity’. 

“Say I were a teen. I have friends. They have friends. I have a good time here, I recommend it, you catch yourself a bigger pool of so called “young blood” that makes this place hotter than any other disco in disco city.” 

The woman cackled. “Must have a lot of friends then.” 

“I network.” 

The woman pushed her glasses up, folding her arms and waving at Alex who was now trudging back towards the front door.

“Lexi, Lexi, Lexi,” she waved at the man, “you think I could get in trouble with the uppers for chaperoning this adorable little cub?” 

Alex bit his lip, his muscles stiffening. 

“Well they’re not gonna be  _ happy _ .” 

“Love the obvi-ism dahling but I’m serious…” she tousled Mirek’s hair. “Reminds me of my niece.” 

Mirek returned the unwanted breach of personal space with a glare. 

“Sorry, sugar.” She placed her hands back on her hips. 

“I’m not here to drink if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

“That ain’t even on the list of things I care about.” The woman shot back. 

Alex grumbled, now having reached the top of the stairs, making the entrance rather crowded. 

“Fine. But you leave me out of the story if anybody asks.” 

The lady smiled, plucking her keys that were resting on his outstretched palm. 

“Ciao, Lexi.”

The doors swung open. 

“Well, sugar?”


	2. Four On The Floor [Part II]

Her silhouette disappeared into the almost impenetrable fog of movement. 

“I didn’t catch your name.” Mirek said as she tripped over a web of legs, attempting to catch up to the woman who moved seamlessly through the crowd. She had, in fact, caught her name. It was like catching a fish with her bare hands. For a second it was trapped, flicking its slimy body wildly, slapping its tail against its captor, to no avail - it was hers for the taking. But in a moment of complacency when she thought it was dead, it jumped to life, wriggling through a weak, slippery net of clasped, mucus-coated, fingers. And in an instant, it was gone. 

So she had caught her name. Once. 

Not anymore. 

“Oh you don’t need it.” She dismissed with a flick of her hand. “But you can call me Ava.” 

“Well mind slowing down, Ava?” 

Ava ignored Mirek’s plea. 

“Ava!”

Mirek trampled over a collection of thick plastic heels like a thicket of vines. Her sports shoes were coated with mismatched glitter - she never paid attention to glitter and its properties but underneath the soupy light she realised that glitter had the capacity to be mismatched - which she greatly detested, knowing that she’d have to spend countless hours digging the specks out of her shoes. 

Despite that, she continued to hop through the crowd as though she were skipping from stone to stone to cross a lengthy river.

As she reached the other end of the crowd, through a parting of the column of bodies, she could see a long staircase and that pair of thin heels slowly disappearing.

“Oh for the love of…” 

She made a last jump, pulling her body weight up by the flimsy wooden bannister. 

Once she had scaled up the stairs, that sounded like a troop of people popping their tongues and tutting in detest, her face met the dangling beads above the doorway that matched the cotton candy acid trip colour scheme of the room (plastic thrift store bought mismatched beads in varying shades and translucencies of an emerald green). 

“Plerphgh.” Mirek spat, knowing the beads were probably laced with unidentified bacteriums. Did you know almost half of the DNA found on the subway’s surfaces do not match any known organism? Well, it definitely wasn’t going to be any better in a downtown raging club. 

Ava smirked from her transparent chair designed to look like it was manipulated from bending a thick, singular sheet of plastic. The table was similarly made from a plexiglass type, a round circle that rested above a perfectly centred cylinder made from the same clear material as well. 

“PG please.” Ava spoke. She didn’t have to address anybody in particular, but the scramble to find the thing she had asked for began. 

“How many times do I have to say I’m _not-_ ”

“A PG is a Pink Guava, sugar.” She pulled up her sunglasses and fully leaned back in the chair. Soon, a flamingo pink goo arrived at the table containing a squiggle of a straw and a yellow toothpick umbrella which both gently leant on the pear-shaped glass’ spotless rim. A shaky pale hand with rounded red nails quickly was responsible for delivering the beverage. “Candy? Get me another one darling.” 

The lady with poofy blonde hair tied into a high ponytail turned and squinted at Mirek as though she were deciphering morse code. “Should I make it a virgin?” 

Ava put a finger to her chin. “Make it a repressed catholic.”

“Gotcha.” The lady finger gunned, mentally berating herself for the laughably awkward act as she stumbled away, quietly shaking her fists at herself. 

Ava made an itching motion with her index. “Sit.”

The throbbing boomboxes from downstairs now could barely be heard. Mirek took several wary steps before plopping down in the seat opposite Ava’s, declaring it hers. 

“You like the place?” Ava sipped on her drink. She did so by leaning her head forwards, ensnaring the rubber tube with her teeth, keeping the rest of her body close to the chair. 

“It’s cool.” Mirek stated, unenthused. 

Ava noted her abnormal ambivalence to the place. “I couldn’t let you onto the dance floor. Safety, sugar. The uppers would yell at me.” 

Mirek responded by raising her shoulders, cocking her head, and pulling her lip upwards for a short moment before dropping the trio and returning to her normal state of sloth-like lethargy. 

However, Mirek was not not thinking. Her face often gave that impression. But now, she was mentally flicking through files of questions that rested in black metallic cabinets. They made a gong-like noise when she kicked it. Her space was filled with these spiky cabinets that shot out from the peachy and reddish floor. Her shoes squished against the fatty mass, the sound erupting from each footstep sounding much like a splash from a disturbed puddle, and she ran from pillar to pillar, scaling the skyscrapers to find what she needed to say. 

But it wasn’t in the cabinets. 

The blonde lady from before reappeared from downstairs. Her sky blue romper snapped Mirek out of her state of half-consciousness, her chirpy schoolgirl voice perking the tip of Mirek’s ear lobes up, “A PG for ya.” Her nails tapped against the table as she placed the glass down. The sound stirred something within Mirek that she found difficulty ignoring. The lady made a short smile, bleached teeth peeking from twin lips, and winked. _Nothing_ , Mirek denied the thought, and she shooed the feeling away.

As the sandy liquid snaked up the rollercoaster of rubber tubing, a vision emerged. 

Mirek sat with her V-shaped glass resting on her flat stomach. She was lying on her couch, an off-white plastic ledge with a recess lined with a set of three linen brick-like cushions. They were blood orange, sparring with Mirek’s teal-cyan sweater. They didn’t have creases - not because Mirek was any good at cleaning them, but because they were stiffly made and, despite Mirek laying in the same spot for hours on end everyday, the couch bore no indent. 

Opposite her was a screen. Like an outdoor movie projector. She breathed and the floor writhed and screamed. There was a foggy ceiling that was pinker and whiter, not like a sky, more like being in a massive warehouse. Above her she could hear the cranking of the mechanisms, the air noisily escaping from every gap in every pipe, liquid of the chemical sort rushing from one end to another.. She couldn’t see them but she knew they contracted and relaxed with the same turmoil too.

Her head was stuck facing forward. One ear firmly against the rough fabric, another pointed upwards. From behind the sofa, she could hear shushing where she thought lay no one. She wanted to turn around to see who it was, but before she did she remembered it was nobody, and she reminded herself not to shatter the illusion. 

The screen flickered on, and the distant spotlights in her mind grew dimmer.. 

She was at home. A set of bells and whirls and whispers echoed from stereos like the ones at the club, that lay beside the projector, like barricades. Like bags of sand. Like crumbled walls. A snapshot of some first person shooter flashed in front of her and then instantly disappeared. 8-bit gore with 8-bit soldiers and 8-bit debris. But another slit of mental film rolled over and she returned to see the people at the disco. Their heads blurred like the ceiling. Bodies, ragdoll like, flailing into each other. 

They pointed at the screen and gossiped. A group of women tossing their heads back and laughing. Everybody tossing their heads back. Everybody laughing. 

The disheveled mass slowed their dancing to a gentle, synchronized, shake. 

“One day in an unknown town in some unnamed American state, a monster stabs somebody.” They chant. 

_A nobody._

“That same monster stabs that nobody’s somebody.” The choir grew bigger. Men and women in patterned button-ups and silk robes sway and sing. They stand on makeshift pews that are actually bleachers and they wear masks of animals made from expertly crafted paper machés. 

_Two nobodys._

“They lay in the grass. They feed the flowers. The monster moves on.”

A pair of torsos, perfectly filleted, lay on a grass patch. A square of chloroplast with lilac buds that at once appeared and drooped their heads guiltily. 

Mirek stood, a metre tall, looking down at her feet. 

_And the monster is never caught._


End file.
